


Come Morning Light

by ADreamingSongbird



Category: Stormlight Archive - Brandon Sanderson
Genre: CFSWF, Gen, Kaladin & A Shitton Of Kaladin-Brand Angst, Universe Alteration - Kaladin leaves Urithiru one day later, and it's angst and it's july so, ft. big brothers thinking about and worrying about their little brothers, this wasn't in the relationships box for me to add but
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-04
Updated: 2016-07-04
Packaged: 2018-07-20 01:14:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7385110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ADreamingSongbird/pseuds/ADreamingSongbird
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"I guess you’ve never really had to worry about a little brother getting in over his head, huh,” Adolin mutters.</p><p>Kaladin actually laughs out loud.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Come Morning Light

Tomorrow.

Tomorrow, Kaladin leaves Urithiru to travel to Hearthstone.  Tomorrow, he’ll have to think about what he wants to say when he gets back and talks to his parents for the first time in four years.  For the first time since…

He takes a deep breath and blows it out.  Thinking about the worst day of his life is not exactly what he wants to do right before going to sleep.

“So,” Syl says.  She twirls into the form of silvery leaves blowing about his head for a moment before settling into her usual girl-form and sitting cross-legged in thin air.  “I finally get to meet your family, huh?”

Kaladin grunts.  He doesn’t particularly feel like coming up with a better response, instead leaning on the stone banister surrounding the rooftop and looking out into the night, at the stars fading off towards the horizon and the dark landscape rising up to meet them.  Being up this high feels good, even if his feet are planted firmly on the ground; part of him wants to jump off and just let himself fall into the sky, but he resists the urge.  It’s late, and if he does that he’ll tire himself out and be miserable on the start of his journey tomorrow—he knows himself well enough to say that if he goes flying now he won’t land for another few hours, until he’s too tired to think.  It’s still tempting.

“Soooo…” Syl tries again. “I’m guessing there’s no point in trying to get you to go to sleep early tonight?”  She ends hopefully, but he just sighs and shakes his head.

“I wish I could,” he sighs after a heartbeat or two, still staring out into the distance. “But I know if I try to go to sleep right now I’ll just lie awake thinking.  If I have to be awake, thinking, I’d rather do it out here under the sky.  At least out here I can breathe.”

She bobs up and down slightly, as if riding a wave, and shrugs.  “That’s… fair, I guess.”  He knows she wants to ask him to say he’ll go in soon, and get some rest.  He doesn’t say it, and he knows that she knows he won’t say it, because he doesn’t want to lie to her.  He might be out here all night.

Silence falls for a moment as a breeze picks up.

“What are you thinking about, Kaladin?” Syl asks softly, a serious note in her voice that isn’t often present.  It chases away his first reaction, of brushing her off and not responding.  If she’s taking him seriously and wants to know, doesn’t he owe it to her to at least acknowledge her concern by giving her some sort of answer?

“Tomorrow,” he finally says, letting out a deep breath.  He rests his elbows on the stone and presses his face into his hands, focusing on the feeling of the free air around him and trying to ignore the storm within.

“Because you’ll be heading home tomorrow?” she asks after a moment, when it becomes clear he’s not going to elaborate without more prodding.

“Not just that,” he says hesitantly, lifting his head to look at her.

“Then what else is it, Kaladin?”  Syl drifts closer to him, her tiny face openly radiating concern.  He closes his eyes against the depth of raw emotion that that concern stirs up.

“I didn’t realize,” he whispers, “until Dalinar mentioned the date earlier.”

“Realize what?”

“I—it’s not tomorrow, exactly—I just—I don’t know how to explain this.”  He stops, gathers his thoughts, reminds himself to breathe, and tries again.  “A few days after tomorrow is—was—Tien’s birthday.”  The words are barely audible even to his own ears, and yet they drop like stones in a well.  “I almost forgot about it.  That might even be the day I get back ho—back to Hearthstone.  And I almost forgot.”

“Kaladin…” Syl reaches out and touches his cheek.  He can’t feel it, but the gesture helps anyway, at least a little; he swallows hard, feeling an enormous, absurd guilt that in the midst of everything else that’s been going on, he didn’t keep track of the date.  It’s ridiculous and he knows Tien would know exactly what to say to make him feel better, because Tien always wanted him to feel better, but _storm_ _it_ , Tien isn’t here, and he _misses_ him, and that’s the entire problem here.

“I want him back, Syl,” he whimpers, voice dangerously close to cracking.  “I just really, really want him back.”

Syl looks pained.  Kaladin almost kicks himself.  This is why he didn’t want to talk about it earlier—she doesn’t entirely comprehend grief, not in the way humans experience it.  It’s different for spren.  And now she probably will blame herself for being unable to help him, and—

“I know,” Syl murmurs.  “I’m sorry.  It’ll… no, I don’t think I can say it’ll be okay, but… it’ll get better, maybe.  That sounds more right.  It’ll get better.  With time.”

“I know,” he answers.  “A lot of time.”

“Weelllll…” she wavers, drawing out the word, “we can… stay out here, as long as you need.”

He quirks a humorless, tired smile at her.  “I appreciate the lack of urging me to get some sleep.”

“Don’t think I won’t start it up again sooner or later,” she wags a finger at him threateningly.  He almost smiles for real.  Almost.

“I’ll be sure to stay on my guard, then.”

Syl grins.  “You’d better,” she teases, settling down on his shoulder and crossing her legs.  Kaladin resumes staring at the horizon, breathing deeply as the wind picks up and tousles his hair.  The wind and the sky, so close it feels like he could almost reach out and grasp a star, offer solace and freedom from the maelstrom inside his head.

A few minutes pass in quiet solidarity, just him, Syl, and the open air.  It still hurts, but he thinks he might be past the worst of it—at least now Syl knows.  He still misses Tien, and he still can’t believe that he—he almost didn’t remember, for the second year in a row, but…

(To be fair, last year, he hadn’t been in much of a position to know what the dates were.  Slavery made that hard.)

“Syl,” he starts, about to say something along the lines of _thank you_ or _I’m glad I have you_ , when the trapdoor behind him rattles.  He freezes and turns on his heel, wondering who the newcomer is, when it opens to reveal Adolin Kholin coming up from below.

They stare at each other for a moment, both obviously surprised to see the other there.

“Bridgeboy,” Adolin greets after a moment.  “What are you doing up here at this hour?”

“Enjoying the air,” Kaladin answers flatly, turning back to the horizon.  “I could ask you the same.”

“Fair enough,” Adolin mutters, climbing the rest of the way out of the trapdoor and closing it.  “I’m here to clear my head, I suppose.”

“Have fun with that,” Kaladin tells him, already withdrawing into himself again.  He turns away, and Syl floats up from his shoulder to drift in front of him so she can give him the full view of her disapproval.

“Don’t just shut down now that someone else is here,” she lectures, though her tone is far from stern.  “Kaladin, you should trust people more!”

“I trust people,” he mutters, trying to keep quiet enough that Adolin doesn’t hear him.  Luckily, the princeling doesn’t say anything, though he doesn’t turn around to check if Adolin looked at him or not.

“You trust people with your words and your plans,” Syl corrects.  “You trust some of them to keep promises, to do what you ask them to.  But you _don’t_ trust anyone with _yourself_.”

“It’s easier this way,” he says, a bit petulantly because she’s right, he doesn’t trust anyone with himself.  But he prefers it that way.  Besides, who is he supposed to trust?  His men can’t see him as anything less than a leader—they can’t see him when he’s breaking like this.  He has to be strong.  The cracks can’t show.  “It’s _better_ this way.”

“No, it isn’t,” Syl tuts reproachfully.  “It isn’t and you know it.”

“Syl,” he sighs.  “I don’t want to talk about this right now.”

“You never want to talk about it,” she points out, fairly accurately.  He presses his lips together and doesn’t say anything, letting her continue.  “Kaladin, just holding everything in isn’t good for you.  You have to tell people sometimes.”

“I tell _you_ ,” he argues halfheartedly.  She’s _right_ , that’s the problem; he likes to pretend it never gets lonely, but on nights like tonight, that gets hard.  Especially to himself.  “I used to tell Tien.”

Syl flutters uncertainly for a moment before she sighs.  “I’m going to go talk to him for you,” she finally decides, flitting off.

“Wait, no—“

“Hi!”  Syl appears in front of Adolin, very suddenly if the way he jumps is anything to judge by. “Can Kaladin borrow your little brother for a while?”

 _“Syl_ ,” Kaladin groans.

“What?  Why would I—wait, what do you mean, ‘ _borrow_ ’?”  Adolin looks flabbergasted, staring at Syl confusedly.  “Who are you, anyway?  Bridgeboy, what is going on here?”

Kaladin lets his head thunk into his hands.  “Nothing.  Nothing is going on here.”

“Well,” Syl says, drifting so she can perch herself in the air between the two of them, “Kaladin misses his brother, so I thought that since he’s not here, he can borrow _yours_ for a while, so that—“

“That’s not how this works, Syl,” Kaladin groans, his voice muffled by his hands.  “You can’t just borrow people’s brothers.”

“Can one of you please explain _what_ is happening here?” Adolin demands.

“And I mean, appreciate the thought,” Kaladin continues, ignoring him for the moment, “but please just… drop it.”

“Hello?  Do you even remember I’m here, too?”

“I don’t want to drop it!” she exclaims. “The whole point of me wanting to borrow his brother for you is that I don’t want us to drop it.  I’m not going to just sit here and ignore it when you’re hurting!”

“Is there any point at all in me asking what I just walked into, or should I wait until your lovers’ quarrel or whatever this is is over?”

“It’s _not_ a lovers’ quarrel,” Kaladin frowns, turning on him.

Adolin throws up his hands.  “Finally!” he exclaims.  “An acknowledgment.  Thank you.  What’s this about ‘borrowing’ my brother?”

“Nothing,” Kaladin huffs.  “No one is borrowing anyone because that is _not_ how people work.  This has nothing to do with your brother.”  He looks pointedly at Syl, who blows a puff of wind at him in response.

“…Right,” Adolin says slowly.  “And who is this?”

“That’s my spren,” Kaladin grumbles.  “Her name’s Syl.”

“You’re forgetting the compliment,” Syl teases, alighting on his shoulder and reaching over to pat his cheek.  “I’ll let it slide this time, though.”

He sighs, softening a bit.  “Her name is Syl, and despite the fact that you can’t borrow siblings, she’s genuinely trying to help, and I do appreciate that,” he corrects.  Syl blinks, and then smiles at him, a rare one of her non-teasing smiles that feels all the more candid for its scarcity.

“I don’t know if that was exactly a compliment, but I’ll take it,” she says, laughing her soft, tinkling laugh and patting his cheek again.  He can’t feel it, but the gesture is appreciated nonetheless.

Kaladin glances back at Adolin and sees him looking at Syl with obvious curiosity and mild bemusement.  “Syl and I formed a bond that allows me to be a Windrunner,” he explains, finding it easier to talk about Radiant things than brothers.  “Whatever I can do is entirely thanks to her.”

“Two kind-of compliments in one minute!” Syl murmurs. “How exciting.”

Unfortunately, Adolin doesn’t seem to draw the distinction between Radiants and brothers.  “So she’s to you what Glys is to Renarin?” he asks.

“Basically, yes,” Kaladin nods.  “Except that Renarin has a different type of spren than I do.  I don’t know what exactly Glys is—I haven’t talked to him much—but each order of the Radiants bonds a different spren.”

Syl nods, sitting down on his shoulder and crossing her legs.  “I’m an honorspren,” she says.  “The Lightweaver has a Cryptic bonded to her.”  She wrinkles her nose in distaste.  “I don’t like him.”

“Why not?” Adolin asks, surprised.

“I don’t know,” Syl says, sighing.  “I still don’t remember.”

Kaladin waves off Adolin’s next question before he asks it.  “Long story,” he says by way of not-really-explanation.  “I can tell you some other time.  I mean, if you want.  I guess.”

“…Sure, alright.”  Adolin shifts, crossing his arms, and studies them some more.  Kaladin meets his gaze evenly, hoping that the topic of brothers won’t come up again, and waits for him to say something.  Eventually, he does.  “So… Truthwatchers,” he says after a moment.  “What exactly do they do?”

 _He’s worrying about Renarin._ “I don’t know,” Kaladin admits honestly, glancing at Syl.  She shrugs slightly, either not remembering herself or unwilling to share right now.  “I mostly know Windrunner things, for obvious reasons.  Have you asked Renarin?”

Adolin actually looks sheepish, rubbing the back of his neck and looking away.  “I… ah… no.”  Awkwardly, he looks back at Kaladin. “He doesn’t like it when he thinks I’m worrying about him.  He can get touchy about sort of… well, you probably already know this, since he likes to hang around with you Bridge Four lot, but he, he sometimes gets incredibly insecure that people see him as weak and useless.”  Adolin’s fists clench at his sides for a moment before he forces himself to relax; Kaladin idly wonders how many people he’s punched on his brother’s behalf. “And I don’t want him afraid even for a _second_ that I see him that way.”

“So… you worry … about worrying about him?” Syl asks, wrinkling her nose in amusement this time.  “That seems kind of silly.”

Adolin snorts.  “Put that way, it definitely does,” he agrees wryly.  “Can you _blame_ me for worrying, though?”

“No.  He’s your little brother.  Of course you worry about him.”  Kaladin could kick himself for letting that slip out, quiet though it may have been, but Syl looks pleased.  He tries to change the subject before any questions can get asked of him.  “Is that why you came out here?  To worry about him in peace?”

A dry chuckle escapes the prince.  “More or less,” he admits.  “He’s asleep now, but I talked to him before he went to bed.  He’s…”  He blows out a breath and runs a hand through his hair.  “Maybe _you_ should talk to him,” he says eventually, with difficulty.  “Seeing as… you’re actually a Radiant and all.  And, well… and I’m not.  He might listen to you if _you_ tell him he can do it.”

“He’s already doing it,” Kaladin answers quietly.  “Storms, he’s already done things that I couldn’t.”

Adolin looks over at him, startled.  “Really?” he asks, sounding incredibly hopeful.  “Like what?”

“He held a Shardblade.”  Kaladin shakes his head at the memory of the _screams_.  “He held one and practiced with it for five days.  He came to defend you in the arena with one.  I couldn’t hold one for five damn _seconds_.”

“Is… is that a Radiant thing, then,” Adolin deadpans, “because if not, you’ll have to forgive me for not finding that entirely impressive.”

Syl fidgets on Kaladin’s shoulder, uncomfortable, before she says quietly, “Imagine the sound from the battlefield, with no glory or anything behind it, just people screaming, dying all around you.  And maybe they’re your friends.  But it’s already happened and you’re just watching.  Just think about the sensation of hearing and feeling all that.  Not fighting back, not able to do anything.  It’s horrible, right?”

Adolin slowly nods, hesitant.  “Yeah,” he says.

“That’s what you hear and feel every time you pick up a Shardblade if you’re a Radiant,” Kaladin says for Syl, sensing her discomfort at talking about it.  “It’s in your head.  Shardblades are the dead spren of the former Radiants.”  He hesitates.  “I, uh, don’t think that’s exactly common knowledge.  Don’t go telling people.”

“They’re _what?_ ” Adolin looks at his hand, the one he wields his blade with, with a sense of horror.  “But… how?”

“I don’t know, but Syl doesn’t really like talking about it, so we’re going to drop that for now,” Kaladin says firmly.  Syl murmurs a soft _thanks_ from his shoulder.

“You can’t just _say_ something like that and then tell me not to ask anything about it,” Adolin objects.  Kaladin sighs, rolling his eyes.

“I just said, I don’t know much more than that.  _Anyway_ , your brother endured it for five days and even managed to attempt a fight with that resonating in his head.  And he still didn’t tell anyone.  He dealt with that entirely on his own.”

Adolin groans, leaning back against the stone banister and running his hand through his wind-tousled hair again.  “I wish he’d told me,” he mutters.  “I … I guess I couldn’t have helped much, but at least I could have _listened_ to him when he needed it.”  He sighs, looking out into the distance for a long moment.  “It’s … it’s strange,” he says after a pause, and Kaladin looks at him again, raising an eyebrow.  “I feel like he might not need me anymore.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Kaladin shrugs.  “But either way, he still wants you.  You’re his brother.”

Adolin doesn’t say anything for several heartbeats.  “I hope so,” he finally murmurs.  Then he looks at Kaladin. “So, bridgeboy… do you have any siblings?”

Kaladin stiffens.

_An intricately carved horse, sitting on his shelf at home—round rocks with white patterns only visible when wet—the wonder he felt when a little hand closed on his finger and a baby’s sweet, adoring voice cooed “Kal’in”—the lurg dropped into Father’s bath one night—taking walks and jumping in muddy puddles together during the Weeping—bright, carefree laughter—the little stone that was “cracked but still good”, the last rock ever given to him, kept in his pocket until he was enslaved—the small, bloody body that was too still in his arms—_

“No.”

“Oh.  So… I guess you’ve never really had to worry about a little brother getting in over his head, huh,” Adolin mutters.

Kaladin actually laughs out loud.  Bitterly, humorlessly, but he laughs.  The prince, he supposes, must have missed or forgotten that Syl said he missed his brother, amid all the other things going on.  Syl winces.

"I used to,” he says, the bitterness and the grief dripping from his voice like blood from a spear thrust through the heart of a child.  “Oh, storms, I worried about him getting in over his head, right up until the day he died.”

“Oh.”  Adolin sucks in a breath.  “I’m sorry,” he says after a moment.  “Stormfather, I can’t begin to imagine…”

“You don’t want to,” Kaladin cuts him off sharply, voice suddenly rough.  “You don’t _want_ to know what it’s like.”  He takes a moment, swallows the grief, and adds quietly, “He was two years younger than me.  His name was Tien.”

“Tien,” Adolin repeats softly.  He looks over at Kaladin, and Kaladin is stunned to see grief in his eyes.  Grief, for a four-years-dead child that he had never met.  “What … if you want to talk about him, I mean, and I understand if you don’t want to, but… what was he like?”

The question is a second surprise, but not an unwelcome one.  Or… at least… not entirely.  Part of Kaladin wants to know why he’s telling _Adolin Kholin_ this, still wants to just bottle all of it up and go fly until he’s too tired to care anymore.  But he can’t really do that now, especially if Syl doesn’t want him to.  It wouldn’t feel right.  Talking doesn’t feel right either, but it feels slightly less wrong.

“He … He was always smiling.”  Kaladin closes his eyes, the memory of that smile coming easily to his mind’s eye, warring with the memory of the blood.  “He found something good in everything.  I used to worry about so many things—my future plans, the people in town, my family—but he always knew how to… how to make me smile, too.”  He stops, shaking his head.   “He smiled at me right before they ran him down.”

“Storms!  You—you _saw?_ ”  Adolin looks shocked, his voice laced with pure horror and his pale eyes wide.

Kaladin feels his lips curve into a grim, humorless smile.  “I didn’t get to him in time,” he says.  The picture of smiling Tien in his mind vanishes, replaced by that pale-faced look of utter terror when Amaram had called _Tien, son of Lirin_ —oh, Stormfather, how he wants to hold the boy, even now, years after he’s been gone.  “He shouldn’t have been on the front lines, conscripted or not.  But he was.”  _And I failed him._

“Kaladin…” Syl starts, but before she finishes, Adolin surprises them both.  He steps forward and pulls Kaladin into a hug.

“Storms… Bridgeboy— _Kaladin_ , I’m so sorry…” he murmurs.  Kaladin slowly, awkwardly lets himself lean into the embrace, bowing his head and lightly wrapping his arms around the prince.  _I will not cry_ , he tells himself. _I will not cry._

They remain standing there for a long moment, long enough for Kaladin’s neck to start hurting from being bent enough to let his head be tucked into Adolin’s shoulder.  Syl sighs in relief, meanwhile.

“Thank you,” she murmurs to Adolin.

Kaladin pulls away first, clearing his throat and looking away.  “I, uh… thanks,” he echoes lamely, feeling awkward as all hell.  Adolin just smiles a small, knowing, sad smile, and Kaladin remembers that he must have lost people on battlefields too, even it they weren’t family.

“Anytime,” he says. “I mean, it’s… yeah.  Just.  You’re welcome.”

Before the silence can grow again and get uncomfortable, Syl interrupts.  “It’s late,” she says, “and you humans need sleep.  You should go.  Both of you.”

Kaladin nods, glancing at Adolin, who offers him a slight smile again.  He … he thinks he might be able to sleep now without staying up too late, thinking of Tien.  “Alright, Syl,” he sighs.  “I guess you win.”

Both of them climb down through the trapdoor one after the other, and walk down the hallways to the lifts that bring them back down to the levels of the tower where they are staying.  It’s a mostly quiet walk, punctuated only with the barest of words—an “after you” or a grunt of thanks for a held door—but it isn’t as awkward as Kaladin feared it would be.

When they get to the hallway where the Kholins’ bedrooms are, though, Adolin doesn’t stop at his door.  Kaladin is almost surprised, just for an instant, but then he realizes— _of course, after what we talked about_ —which room the prince is going to.   His mood instantly curdles.

Adolin pauses, his hand on Renarin’s door’s handle, and turns.  “Bridgeboy— _Kaladin_ ,” he says softly, his voice grave as opposed to its usual jovial lilt, “I… if you ever need to talk or anything, or… whatever it might be, honestly—just know my door is open when you need it.”

 _Liar._   _Your door is closed, because you’re with your brother._

The words are well-meant, but whatever comfort Kaladin drew from their rooftop talk has already soured.  _Adolin_ has the luxury of going to his little brother’s room to reassure himself that things are okay.  A luxury Kaladin lost a long time ago.

He was wrong.  He isn’t going to sleep well tonight, no matter what.

“Thanks,” he says woodenly.  Then, not wanting to see Renarin’s door open to let Adolin slip inside, he turns on his heel and walks away.

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Eep hi new reader here, is this how you do CFSWF?
> 
> (I always thought Tien would have a late summer, early fall, harvest season-ish birthday. He just seemed like a summer child to me.)


End file.
